


Shame On You

by Lurea



Series: Fool Me Once [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angry Sex, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Handcuffed Together, Inappropriate Use of Handcuffs, M/M, Rare Pairings, Slow Burn, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-02-21 23:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13153905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurea/pseuds/Lurea
Summary: Deacon is annoyed to recognize the Sole Survivor’s companion.  MacCready is annoyed right back.  Sequel to Fool Me Once.“What was that for?” Deacon said to MacCready's chest.  “Why are we handcuffed to—“ He angled his neck painfully to glare at their two arms.   He saw the issue now.  The chain went through a loop of rebar protruding from the cracked cement of the old freeway.  MacCready tugged at it but it held firm.  “Why did you handcuff us to rebar, MacCready?”"Wow, that's amazing, Deacon, how did you figure that out?  Guess it comes from being amaster spy."





	1. Coming out of my cage

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: The sex in this fic is definite dub con, and depending on your optics, you might see it as attempted or actual sexual assault. Be warned and don't read if you think you will have problems!

“Funny, I don’t remember making that a party invitation,” Deacon said. The words came out light and carefree, but the gut-punch that he'd felt when he recognized the person standing behind the Sole Survivor was anything but. She'd had Nick Valentine and a dog with her when she'd walked into the Old North Church and he had thought-- Well, Nick Valentine was a point in her favor. This guy was a definite point against. 

"Hey, George," the other man drawled. Then he shifted the pack on his back, eyes sweeping across the little clearing.

Deacon felt his jaw tighten. "Like Steinbeck or like the comic? I'm guessing the comic's more your speed. Either way, it's a compliment, so thanks."

"Sure, George, call me Lennie," MacCready snapped and Deacon's eyes widened behind his sunglasses. 

The Sole Survivor gave him a quick look. “I thought your name was-- Wait, you two know each other?"

In the late afternoon light, Deacon's shadow stretched long and black before him. The sun in the others' eyes made it harder to read their expressions. Deacon hesitated and thought about walking away. The weather was too clear for a frontal approach and Blue tended to favor those. Plus, with this guy tagging along—he wasn't exactly sure that boded well. No. He'd come too far to let him mess things up.

“I'm Deacon,” Deacon said evenly. “As for him-- I know his reputation. Which is—poor, to be charitable.” Mac—the Gunner, damn him, didn't say a word in rebuttal, just stared down at his feet as if they weren't talking about him. Or as if Deacon wasn't being less than honest. Jerk. 

Blue—which wasn't her real name but it was what she was going by—spoke and Deacon felt the temperature drop by at least ten degrees. “I don’t care what his reputation used to be. He’s proven himself to me. If you don’t trust my judgement, then I’m leaving.”

Such assertive arrogance! What a perfect Pre-war attitude! Sole's score ticked down a notch on Deacon's mental tally. His pleasant expression didn't change; he had a job to do. He wouldn't be showing her—them anything the Institute didn't already know about. He lifted his hands, palms outward. “Hey, I didn’t spend all that time stalking you to let you get away that easily. But I would take it as a close personal favor if your backup doesn’t sell us out to the Institute.”

The other man looked up and smiled tightly. “Depends. How much they payin?” He looked the same as the last time Deacon saw him, but for different clothing. Blue eyes, brownish-red hair, loose pants, shirt, coat—probably multiple weapons in various places, in addition to the expensive-looking rifle slung over one shoulder. Three months since that first night in Diamond City. _You never did brush up on searches,_ Deacon, mental-Dez reminded him. _Don't turn your back on him_. Hmm. That rifle was new. 

Blue looked back over her shoulder and he snorted. “Just joking, boss.” Ah, that was funny. What was more amusing than the wholesale slaughter of people that Deacon knew, had worked with for years, right?

The other man raised his eyes to Deacon's and muttered, “Maybe I’d do it for free.” 

Deacon’s mouth responded before his more-rational part could intervene. "You and the Institute hooking up? They supply the money, you shoot the innocents—sounds like love.” 

He saw Blue open her mouth out of the corner of his eye and stopped himself from saying anything more. He’d also moved a couple of steps closer to...that guy without thinking, and now Blue was to his side. Not good. No turning your back on the newbie. 

He—the jerk, the other guy, the Gunner..... _Avoiding his name is pretty elementary_ , Deacon. _It's Distancing 101_ , mental-Dez remarked. _Why are you doing it?_ Oh, you know, just like to keep you guessing! Except—not. Deacon dropped his eyes to the scrub-covered wastes. Let's not analyze motivations or—things. There's neither Daytripper nor happy orgasms coursing through your system right now, so screw emotional honesty. Or any honesty. Screw the whole _concept_ of honesty. 

Time to get things back on track. His stomach was tight, and tension in your core always leaked out...through the chakras? Something. He couldn't remember, and that Pre-war book on meditation had been torn in half. So many books, so much knowledge lost. He folded his arms, carefully mirroring Blue’s body language and concerned expression and took a step back, turned to her. 

"Wow. Sorry, Blue." Genuine sincerity in his tone—well, genuine as far as she knew. She began to relax and he copied her, and then took it further, relaxing his stance and shoulders, and spreading out his arms. "I'm not the biggest fan of mercenaries but I'm always happy to be proven wrong. I’m glad I got that out of my system. Everyone feeling better now? Group hug.”

She looked relieved. Deacon's mental tally ticked up a notch for being easy to manipulate. He glanced over at ...MacCready-- _haha_ , see there, Dez, no big deal, like, _at all_. His mouth was twisted scornfully. Ah, yes. He'd seen through that before, the perceptive bastard. 

Blue glanced back and forth between them. “So, is everything all right?”

MacCready said, “Yep.” 

Deacon added, “Oh, yeah. We're cool. We're so cool, it's like we're living in a cave, at a steady sixty-eight degrees year-round.” Took a second to enjoy the expression on MacCready's face. Then he took a deep breath, and pushed all of _that_ aside, and went on, “So, there’s a tourist up ahead with some info for us. Lead the way, Blue.”

\------------- 

Blue surprised Deacon by picking the stealthy way. Deacon approved. Plus one. He hung back, trying to get a feel for how she operated. They flushed a couple of mole rats on the way to the tunnel and she shot them efficiently—with a damn nice laser rifle that had ‘Brotherhood’ written all over it. Seriously, it might even have a label that said _‘designed by fascists for all your human supremacy needs.’_ That was …worrisome. Because if she was leaning Brotherhood, then he should shoot her right here. Minus, like, a million. 

He glanced back at MacCready. But he was still hanging around Goodneighbor these days, although not in Hancock's office, obviously, so that didn’t make sense either. A Brotherhood enthusiast would peel their skin off before setting foot in the ghoul haven. A puzzle. Well, Deacon did love a good puzzle. 

Flicker of motion caught his eye. The screen on her Pip-boy had changed. He’d like to get a closer look at that bit of tech. If she’d had dealings with the Brotherhood, he was amazed that they hadn't flat-out confiscated it. Maybe she’d looted the rifle off a dead paladin or something. Still a minus one for making him worry.

She waved and gestured ahead. Beep, boop, bop. Killer robots on the way. Deacon looked around for cover. Wait, was he the only one doing that? Yes. Yes, he was. 

MacCready brought his rifle up in a smooth economical way and fired quickly. Took down two. The third advanced, but Blue sizzled it into ash with her laser-gun. Deacon lowered his pistol, not having even gotten off a shot. Well, whatever else was going on with her, she was a damn efficient killer. As was her partner. Plus two.

They advanced into a larger room. Turret up ahead, still going. Another body crumpled in a corner. Deacon turned her over and … _oh_. Songbird. Idealistic. Really believed in the cause. Oh, and young. Stupidly young, because how naïve to choose that as her code name. It sounded like something a kid would do. Now she was a cold sack of meat in an underground room. With benefits like that, it was no wonder that people weren't lining up to help the Railroad. Part of Deacon wants to rage and run out shooting at the damn Gen-1s, but the cold calculating part of him, the part that occasionally sounded like Dez or a snotty British butler, simply dropped that emotion into a box and closed the lid. No time for that now. Not _ever_ time for that. Stuff it into a box, like he'd put Songbird in a grave, and then push it out into the ether with all the other boxes full of Deacon's emotions.


	2. Choking on your alibis

Blue gestured again and they all froze. She held up three fingers, and pointed. He wondered if three fingers meant, oh, say...Three enemies. That way. MacCready knelt down and looked through his scope. The muscles of his arms bunched up as he scanned the area ahead. Big pipes, mesh catwalks, water, radiation. Your basic death-trap. MacCready's long coat draped to one side and kneeling drew the green pants tight. Deacon’s gaze drifted across his shoulders, down the curve of his back, to narrow hips and firm thighs and round -- 

MacCready muttered, “I got the back two. You?” 

Blue nodded, sighting through her nifty fascist rifle. Oh. Firefight. He should probably at least get his weapon ready, not that he'd needed much up to this point. Hmmm...he thought he'd keep using the pistol since Mac and Blue between them seemed to have the heavy weapon angle covered. 

The synths up ahead were doing that creepy thing they do, standing and staring in low power mode until something triggered them. Two white plastic heads exploded, one right after the other. The last activated and whirled toward them and Blue incinerated it. But then three burst out of the water, two rushed out overhead on the mesh walkway and there were multiple alerting noises from the room past this one. 

Potential mob-scene—it was dangerous. They should withdraw to a more defensible position. Deacon moved back to the doorway, but the others didn't move. MacCready hunkered down and started firing steadily, and Blue moved to his right and advanced to shoot at the synths above them. No retreat, then. Instead, it was stand your ground/advance time. Dumb. Bad tactics—he was surprised that MacCready was okay with this, because everything that he'd found out about him suggested that he was much more comfortable with distant engagements. Must be Blue's influence--minus one for her. 

One of the walkway synths fell off and landed inconveniently close to MacCready and tried to grab him. Deacon grabbed the back of his duster and yanked hard, pulling him out of its reach. Mac stumbled, trying to bring his rifle up, while Deacon put two bullets into its head, one in each eye. The lighter-weight bullets didn’t drop it, but it was a lot less lethal without vision. That was a problem with big guns, it took a lot of trouble and practice to use them quickly and efficiently. MacCready was still much faster than most, because it had only fallen back a step or two before he nailed the shot, right in the center of the chest and dropped it. 

Deacon fired over his head and took out vision on two more, making it easy for Mac to mop them up. At least two or three were still advancing from the next room, though, plus an unknown number on the walkway. These odds were a little much for Deacon, much less a rational, non-suicidal rush type person. "Fall back?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the gunfire. Two rooms east was a nice bottleneck, and they could pick them off, one by one. 

Blue shook her head and jumped for the walkway. Pulled herself up nimbly with one hand. The synth took a couple of steps back and started firing. Deacon opened his mouth to yell, and nothing came out...because the Sole Survivor didn't even react, just.....advanced, getting hit by shot after shot until she was close enough to blow its head off. His breath left his chest with a rush. _She's....that...what the_ hell _was that....._

"Deacon!" MacCready said. Another synth down, but two more still advancing. Deacon pulled his attention back to the fight and fired automatically. Got them each with a head shot that slowed them and then fired steadily at the lagging one—even small-caliber bullets add up. Mac dropped the closest and Deacon's fifth shot finally dropped the second. Good teamwork—he appreciated the other's easy professionalism. 

Blue finally jumped down from the walkway and returned to them. Deacon could see at least five burn marks on her armor, her arms and her legs. _That_ should have _killed_ her. She noticed him checking and stood quietly, MacCready's eyes flickering back and forth between them, and his rifle still in his hands. "I guess that Pip-boy isn't your only Pre-war tech," Deacon said. 

She smiled, but it had an edge of bitterness. "No. Some of us soldiers were too expensive to replace. So good ol' Uncle Sam made us extra-hard to kill." She glanced down at the ground. "If that mercenary had shot me, then my husband would still be alive. And I would be too." 

She looked at him evenly. "Don't forget to add that to your file, _Deacon_." Then she waded into the water, checking the dead synths, casually ripping off the plastic chest plates to rummage around inside. Ouch. Point for perception, and another for sheer badassery. 

Well, that was....interesting. He glanced over and saw MacCready watching him. The dead synth with the blown-out eyes was at their feet. MacCready gestured down at it. "Um. Thanks, I guess. I—I owe you one. " 

“Don’t thank me," said Deacon coolly. "No, no. That was some other guy, he just swooped in, shot them and ducked back out again. I think I heard mysterious music play when it happened, did you hear that? No?” 

MacCready looked annoyed. "Funny, Deacon." 

Deacon didn't bother answering. After that exciting bit, the rest of the tunnels were practically a walk in the park. Deacon kept watching Blue, looking for—what? Her eyes to glow or to start flying, maybe? He didn’t know. Then they reached the last security door and things went sideways. 

“I’m going with you,” Deacon said again, as persuasively as he could manage. “Blue--I need to do this. Those are my people in there.” Looked like he would have to subtract that ‘easy to manipulate’ tally. And another for foolhardy stubbornness. 

Tried once more by letting his voice shake—just a bit. "Some of them died so I could escape.” 

MacCready snorted and Deacon scowled at him. Keep your opinions to yourself, _buddy_. 

Blue looked up from her pack and he quickly re-focused on her. "Deacon, I understand, but--" She looked...rather unaffected, considering that he had been using his best sentimental stuff. Her voice had a flat tone that hadn't been there before. Odd—he'd made sure that she and MacCready had not had any private time to talk, to say compare notes on someone named 'Deacon'. 

_Now that you know she's augmented, maybe she's stopped pretending to be human_ , mental-Dez remarked. Which was—a disquieting thought to say the least. Not enough data to support it or reject it. 

Blue zipped up her pack and continued evenly: "I need you and Robert to fall back to the freeway and wait for my word. I can use your help with the minefield, but here? Piece of cake. I’ll go faster without having to worry about you.” 

Worry about him? Deacon wasn't sure if he should be flattered or insulted. Probably both. Plus, he didn't like the feeling of being shunted off to the kid's table with MacCready, of all people. “Look, I know you're...you. And obviously up for a challenge. But The Switchboard is not a piece of cake. Remember Ricky? There’s synths, mines, our traps and about a hundred other things. Plus, you don’t know where the prototype is.” 

She shrugged on her pack and started loading fusion cells into her rifle. “How many modified Stealth boys are lying around? I’ll just grab them all. As for the rest—this is a pre-war military installation, Deacon. That's who I am." She smiled. “I’ll cut the power, activate the counter-insurg measures and lock it down, and then start the EMP generator.” 

Okay, Deacon had to admit that sounded impressive. He hadn't had to use any of the Railroad passcodes on the way in. She moved confidently up to each terminal, pressed her finger to the reader and every time, the machine beeped and gave her full access. Deacon had never seen anyone use the fingerprint readers before. It was... freaky. Deacon searched for another reason to put up against her iron self-confidence. The Railroad had used EMP before but-- "What if there are gen-3s or Coursers in there?” 

She didn't say anything for a moment, but a flicker of sadness passed over her face. Thinking about the missing child perhaps? Plus one for being easy to read, at least, even if she wasn't easy to manipulate. She looked down. "I can handle them too, Deacon. You'll have to trust me. Now," she went on briskly. "Robert’s got a Pip boy I modified for him. I can send word on the short-wave.” 

She straightened up and the tip of rifle just happened to point close to the floor in Deacon’s direction. “Deacon, go.” And looked like he wouldn't have to teach her how to subtly threaten someone. Another plus one. 

He stared at her, unwilling to leave but at the same time, unable to think of any further reasonable objections. He didn’t want to alienate her. But if he wasn’t with her, how was he supposed to finish his evaluation? 

“If I don’t show up with your prototype in hand, then you can absolutely flunk me,” she added flatly, which was spookily close to his thoughts. Were psykers around Pre-war? That was something to check into. Then she gestured pleasantly at the pipe they’d just crawled through. “Goodbye, Deacon.”


	3. Turning saints into the sea

It was just beginning to get dark when they re-emerged from the escape tunnel. Dusk was a dangerous time of day, when various creatures came out to hunt but luckily, they saw nothing on the hike back. MacCready didn't say anything as they walked, just kept his rifle held loosely in one arm, eyes sweeping the landscape around them. Deacon felt increasingly frustrated that he'd let Blue insist on this. He nudged MacCready with one shoulder, and kept his tone easy. “Hey, pal. You can tell me. Did you put her up to that?”

The other man's mouth tightened. "No, _pal_. She does her own thing.” He grimaced briefly. “You got off easy. She doesn't take arguing very well.” Hmmm...should that be a plus two for knocking him down a notch? He'd like to know the details.

They reached the bus and clambered up, MacCready finally slinging his gun around on his back, which made Deacon feel more comfortable. "So, is this some sort of assassination thing? Get me out here by my lonesome and blow me away?" he asked idly. 

MacCready grunted, grabbing onto a handhold on the slippery roof. "If that was what she wanted, Deacon, she would have killed you back there, instead of sticking you with me."

Deacon reached the top first and pivoted around to offer the other man a hand. MacCready took it and he pulled him up on the edge, still gripping his wrist. "So, is it an assignation-type thing, then?" he asked playfully, mostly just to see if he could discomfit him, knock a hole in his self-assurance. 

_Mostly?_ muttered mental-Dez. Hush. 

MacCready pulled his hand away. "You and your big words. Does that mean picking up some stranger in a bar and screwing them under false pretenses?"

"Ouch, that was mean," Deacon replied. "You know, I totally didn't see anything wrong with that until just now, but you're making me rethink my whole, like, approach to romance."

"Shut up," Mac snapped and walked ahead of him up the old freeway.

Ricky was long gone, probably counting his lucky stars to be out of this mess, Deacon thought sourly. He could wish the same for him. Something about the atmosphere was making him nervous. He had learned to trust his gut, but this was far from ideal circumstances. He was off balance, second-guessing himself. 

In front, MacCready paused and aimed his rifle in one smooth motion. Deacon had his pistol up before he’d consciously registered it and moved up next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “What is it?” he whispered. 

No answer. MacCready abruptly lowered the rifle. “Nah, it’s nothing, I—I just thought I saw one of those ferals twitch.” 

Deacon squinted ahead into the gathering darkness. “What, one of those ferals? Dude, Blue shredded them—wait, I guess another could have come along….” He fired his silenced pistol into the pile. No reaction. “Nope. Just pieces.” 

“Sorry,” the other man muttered and stalked on ahead. Deacon looked after him curiously. He wasn’t sure if that was one of the random bits of trauma that everyone who survived the wasteland accumulated or if it was specific. He… disliked not knowing things like that. Perhaps something to do with his wife’s death. He didn’t think that anyone had told him exactly how she died. At any rate, it was one of the first times that he’d seen the other distracted. Although, to be fair, he had seemed _really_ distracted after losing the bet in Hancock’s office. So unusual, um, other than times involving sex, but really a handful of encounters over a few months wasn’t that big of a sample size, if one wanted accuracy. _Thinking about that is not the best way to feel less off-balance,_ mental-Dez said chidingly. Focus, Deacon! 

Hey, he could focus. Point in fact: Blue. He’d hacked some old records and put a bunch of pieces together, and thrown himself out on a limb with Desdemona. After Blue had done the whole Lazarus maneuver, he’d kept a sharp-ish eye out. He’d asked around, and shadowed her across the Commonwealth, but always from a distance. (He was _done_ with personal recon; he'd told Dez and everything.) Nothing in his research or observations had hinted at the ability to shrug off laser fire or survive a gunshot to the head. Which meant: she was keeping her abilities secret. Why? Or alternatively, she was purposely showing them to Deacon. Again, why? At any rate, MacCready had been unsurprised by her tactics and her durability. He knew—something. 

Anyway...No one could argue with her _public_ actions. She’d picked off raiders and mutants, helped settlements, rescued kidnapped kids, and gotten the water supply re-established for Greygarden. All real Savior of the wastes stuff. She’d had a helper on that last one—her new Gunner friend obviously, but the robots hadn’t known anything about him. He would have recruited her then, but he arrived too late. But then lo and behold, she turned up at the Old North Church the next week. With Nick Valentine and not saying anything about her own personal mission. Perhaps she was driven by revenge, since the husband described in her records was notably absent. Perhaps by the missing child. It wasn’t common knowledge, but she’d confided in a few people and those had been overheard by others… Deacon was good at his job. 

He and Mac reached the top of the freeway and started setting up a temporary camp by the open truck. Faint lights from Corvega visible in the distance. Still ghoul-free, thank God. Deacon broke up a few packing boxes to start a small fire and heat water. Dehydrated stew, yum-yum. Ripped open the sealed packet with his teeth and dumped it into the pan, added a bottle of water. It was nearly dark. He sat down on a long wooden crate and stared into the fire thoughtfully. This was crazy; how were they supposed to clear a minefield in the middle of the night? He had a sleeping bag in his pack, but he hoped he wouldn't need it. He could think of so many better, less haunted and creepy places to spend the night. 

MacCready sat down next to him and began fiddling with a Pip-boy. He clicked through a series of screens and paused at one, squinting and angling the device. The warm line of his thigh along Deacon’s was …distracting. MacCready, MacCready, MacCready. If he said it three times, would it summon a good karma version? Mental-Dez wondered why he would bother. 

The stew was bubbling and Deacon poured some in a chipped mug. Tasted. Salty, but not too bad. Handed a mug to the other man. The firelight gleamed golden on his skin—what there was of it, because as seemed to be his usual pattern, he was covered neck to toes in multiple layers. And despite the night's warmth and the fire, he hadn't taken any of them off, either. Mac took the mug and sipped, eyes never leaving the device. What, no thanks? Courtesy was dead in the Commonwealth. 

He finished his stew and wiped the mug clean. Thought about getting out his sleeping bag, but it was too early. Instead, he pulled off his heavy coat, hat and gloves and stretched. Mmm...maybe he'd build the fire up a little higher. Stowed his weapons in his pack in easy reach. Mac was still looking at the Pip-boy. Jerk was probably just playing Red Menace or something. 

“Well?” Deacon asked. "Any messages?" 

MacCready straightened up and clicked it off. “Nothing but an ETA.” He hesitated and added quickly. “Umm.... sunrise.” 

“Sun _rise_?” Deacon repeated. The sun had just _set_ , darkness closing in around their little fire. Sunrise was a good ten hours away. “I could crawl through the Switchboard by then.” Shouldn't whatever Pre-war tech she had make her faster, not slower? This was getting ridiculous. 

“That’s it,” he announced. “I’m going back there to check on her.” Deacon was familiar with the area. Pop a stealth-boy and he could get there in half an hour or less. 

MacCready looked alarmed. "Um...you can't. She says the pre-War defenses are tied to...um, i.d.s. Hers are in the system and ours aren't.” 

Deacon allowed himself a moment of disbelief before laughing. “Was that-- your attempt at a lie? It's so cute, like watching a puppy fall down stairs. Come on, do it again.” 

Mac flushed. "I guess you know lies." Pathetic attempt at a comeback. 

Deacon let the smile fall off his face. “Yeah, I do, actually. And that’s why I’m leaving. Now.” As much fun as baiting MacCready was, Deacon couldn't suppress a growing feeling of anxiety. If he’d been wrong about the Survivor--the Railroad couldn’t afford any more mistakes. Not after the Switchboard. _She knew where HQ was_. What if Coursers were incoming, while he sat out here on an overpass? 

He stood up with his pack, only to have it taken out of his hands by MacCready. "Keep-away. Not fun. You didn't get enough of being the biggest bully at Little Lamplight?” 

MacCready smiled tightly. "You're checking up on me? Sweet, I didn't know you cared, man.” 

Deacon circled around the fire but MacCready moved so that he was between Deacon and the gap in the barricades. “There?” Deacon asked in disbelief. “That’s where you’re going to make your stand? There’s just some cracked concrete and rebar keeping you and the ground from having a really close encounter.” 

MacCready said nothing. “Okay, you’re officially making me nervous. How about you come over here on the solid piece of concrete and tell me why I should not be suspicious of the creepy two-hundred year old super-soldier who does strange things for mysterious reasons.” 

MacCready looked scornful but finally moved over to the more solid section of the overpass and tossed Deacon’s pack back over by the fire. “Deacon, you’re not vetting her. She’s vetting you." He looked exasperated. "Everyone else gets it. The Brotherhood and the Institute give her their best tech, and hot guys, but the Railroad—you guys send in the as—the jerk spy who's so obviously lying. About everything!" He shook his head. "Yeah, good job, slow clap." 

Deacon stared at him for a long moment, feeling uncharacteristically taken aback. Was that true? Was he supposed to be....seducing her? _I fucking told Dez I was done with personal recon!_ Didn't let any of his thoughts show on his face from long habit. "Wait a minute—are you saying I’m not hot? Dude, ouch, that hurts, really, I’m crushed.” 

MacCready gave him a look. “You know what I mean. 

“Wait, so which of us is the hot one in this scenario? I’m getting confused.” He said it lightly, but he was watching the other man’s movements closely. MacCready couldn’t be more obviously attempting to delay him—dude truly sucked as a liar so he’d given up and was now trying to dangle some tasty truthy bits as bait. Better tactic, but Deacon couldn’t afford to get diverted. And this conversation was taking too long. He dodged around MacCready and made for the path back down to the ground. 

MacCready grabbed at his shirt and caught it and yanked, making him stumble a couple of steps over to the thin and cracked part of the old freeway. Not his favorite place to be. He tried to both pull away from Mac’s grip and side-step. Then an edge piece cracked under his feet, and tilted, giving him an alarming glimpse straight down one hundred feet. He lunged backward, crashing into MacCready and knocking them both down. He scrambled away from the drop and saw MacCready fumbling at his waist. Deacon suddenly remembered removing multiple holdout weapons during a night in Diamond City. He captured MacCready's wrist in a hard grip. “Here's a thought; how about you try not shooting me?” 

MacCready tried to pull away and couldn’t. “I haven't ever shot at you, jerk,” he retorted. 

“Oh, c'mon. You totally thought about it.” MacCready was at least partially ambidextrous so Deacon grabbed his other wrist, too. MacCready yanked away, and the little git was surprisingly strong, but Deacon held onto his wrists even when the motion pulled him half atop the other man. 

Mac brought one knee up and used the leverage to free his right hand with a sharp blow. Ow. That hurt Deacon’s forearm. _Mental note: brush up on hand-to-hand skills._ Deacon glimpsed a flash of metal in MacCready’s hand and thought, _This is it_. He struck out, half-blindly, trying to force it away from his face. Mac grunted in surprise and fumbled with something over his head and he felt cool metal against one wrist. 

Just as his mind was beginning to form the word ... _handcuffs_ instead of _gun_ \--he heard the cuff click closed. He tugged and heard steel scrape against concrete. MacCready grabbed at his arm again, and acting half on instinct, Deacon twisted his wrist, forced the metallic circle down and latched it closed. 

MacCready tried to jerk away, but too late. The cuff around his right hand was snug and pulled tight. The motion yanked the other cuff, on Deacon’s left, up so that they were face-to-face. There was a short, brief staring contest that ended when MacCready blew out his breath in annoyance and got up on one elbow to look at the cuffs. 

“What was that for?” Deacon said to MacCready's chest. “Why are we handcuffed to—“ He angled his neck painfully to glare at their two arms. He saw the issue now. The chain went through a loop of rebar protruding from the cracked cement of the old freeway. MacCready tugged at it but it held firm. “Why did you handcuff us to rebar, MacCready?” 

"Wow, that's amazing, Deacon, how did you figure that out? Guess it comes from being a _master spy_." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Deacon has obviously seen Puppies vs. Stairs videos on youTube.)


	4. It started out with a kiss

Deacon ignored the gibe with an effort. "This'll be a fun story for back at HQ," Deacon said. "Now how about you take these off?" 

MacCready ignored this reasonable request in favor of a close examination of the handcuffs and the rebar. Uh-oh. Deacon was starting to get a bad feeling about this. _Starting?_ mental-Dez asked. 

MacCready pulled at the rebar and tried to bend one end of the loop upward. "Stop _messing_ with that," Deacon said. "Just get the key and unlock us, already." 

"No can do, man. I just picked those up. No idea where the key is." 

"You locked us into a set of handcuffs that you don't have the key for?" Deacon repeated. 

MacCready shrugged. "First of all, I wasn't intending to lock myself and second of all, you just need a lockpick to get these old-fashioned ones off." 

"Fine. Give me a lockpick." 

MacCready looked away and muttered something. 

"What was that? I didn't hear you." Deacon said. "What? They're in your pack? And so are mine. _In my pack."_ He used his free hand to gesture to both of the packs, sitting innocently on the far side of the fire. Might as well be on the moon. Which was up and looking very full and pretty, which in itself, was just a confirmation that they were no doubt in for a helluva night. Full moons and crazy—they went together like mac and cheese. 

Deacon blew his breath out through his teeth. "Great. Thanks. My day really wouldn't be complete without being in imminent danger at least five times." 

“You’re not in imminent danger, Deacon, exaggerate much?” MacCready said, with a hard tug at the rebar. It didn't budge but a chunk of concrete cracked and fell, rotating in lazy circles until it disappeared into the darkness. More bad feelings. On top of all the other bad feelings, so that made it Super-Bad. 

"Oh, was _that_ an exaggeration, MacCready? Was it?” His tone was still light, which was difficult to maintain through clenched teeth. “If we die, I am haunting you in the afterlife.” 

MacCready gave the chain a hard pull that Deacon could swear reverberated across the entire concrete surface. 

“Will you stop that before you manage to drop us next," Deacon hissed and knocked his arm out from under him. Mac pushed back hard. Then Deacon tried to punch him, and Mac swung back and there was a brief scuffle that accomplished nothing except knocking off Deacon's sunglasses. The scant amount of slack in the cuffs kept them almost on top of each other, breathing hard, and in Deacon's case, wondering if his shoulder would ever feel normal again. Normal might be a stretch. He’d take workable. MacCready twisted away from him, flat on his back. The fire flickered and flared up briefly before receding to a dim orange smolder that illuminated nothing. Wonderful. The sky was pitch-black and the stars were out. Pretty. At least it would be if he were not handcuffed to a freakin’ road. The old concrete was still warm from the sun. 

MacCready shifted and Deacon felt tugging through the chain. The concrete creaked again and there was a sudden alarming feeling of tension through the entire surface. 

"Get away from the edge!" He fisted one hand in MacCready's stupid five layers of coats and shirts and pulled them both sideways until they were a couple of feet from the brink of the largest hole. Couldn't go much further that way because of the concrete barricades. Go too far the other direction and risk falling off the damn overpass—while being handcuffed to it, which seemed like a very fatal-type of outcome. Deacon wasn't....afraid of heights, just...very respectful. Sometimes he could appreciate the tactical advantage, but at the moment, he just felt like a conveniently placed snack for a passing Behemoth. 

He stared at MacCready's face from six inches of distance, and pointedly didn't think about the last time time that they'd been this close. The holier-than-thou jerk. Oops, not thinking about it. Deacon swallowed hard. "Not that I give a shit, MacCready, but you do know that if you fall, it will totally dislocate my arm. Also probably pull yours off, so there's that, too." 

MacCready scowled. "Move then." He scooted forward and Deacon hastily scrambled back until Deacon's back was against the barricade. Had to breathe slowly out through his nose at the sensation of the other man’s body pressed against him from chest to hips. Not thinking about anything or ….anywhere. Nope. Not that that was preventing the rest of him from both remembering and reacting, and when the _hell_ had feeling ammo digging into his groin become a thing? 

Removing armor, clothing, getting lube, not to mention finding a _safe_ bed... It was a wonder anyone got laid in the Commonwealth. Sex was not a logical way to pass time. That would have to be—cleaning one’s guns or practicing sniping or something. Although when one _happened_ to be, say, handcuffed to a cute guy on an overpass... 

_Sir should cease this line of thought immediately_ , snotty-Brit remarked. Too late. And wow, this was extra-special awesome, _now_ he was getting hard. Not a good time, Mr. Happy. Really not. His dick ignored his promised reprisals and continued to harden. Distinct feeling of an answering hardness in the region of MacCready’s groin. The fact that Deacon was close enough and sensitive enough to feel that annoyed him even more. 

He wasn’t even sure who he was _most_ annoyed with: Himself, for getting distracted. MacCready, for oh-so-obviously being distracting—that's not even adding the whole handcuffs thing. Blue, for being difficult and hard to manipulate. He needed some distance from this situation for his peace of mind. What could he say; his favorite yoga pose was the split. He pulled at the handcuffs in frustration and got nothing except a flash of pain for his trouble. Pity; sometimes he carried a universal handcuff key, but not today. Which, whoa, wait a minute-- _Exactly_ , snooty-Brit said. _If Sir isn't distracted, then_ why _did you believe him when he said that he had no key?_

Deacon was looking straight into MacCready’s blue eyes, thinking all of this, and as soon as his brain made that connection and he started groping around Mac’s pockets with his free hand, it was obvious that the smart bastard immediately figured out what he was going for, and didn't say, misinterpret the groping as a pass upon his fair person. _Yes, what a pity_ , Brit-butler remarked dryly. 

“Stop it, Deacon! I told you I don't have a key!” MacCready shoved at him. Deacon pushed down a surge of annoyance and rolled on top of him, preventing him from moving and pinning his free arm with his shoulder. 

Deacon went for pants pockets first, as the most likely spot for a key that you’d want to keep track of. If he could find it, he'd unlock himself, leave MacCready because _screw him_ and get the hell back to the Switchboard to find out what Blue was up to. This meant that he was feeling around Mac’s hips, and trying to concentrate on key and not...anything else. Meanwhile MacCready was wriggling and generally being annoying. Checked the last pants pocket. Nada. Nice dick, though. As he so-very-well remembered. Deacon tried to push down a twinge of arousal, and…failed, pretty much. 

“I want that key, like, now, MacCready,” Deacon said. Trying to keep his mind on Blue and keys and not about how pleasant MacCready smelled, like a mixture of leather and cordite. The dude has a truly unfortunate number of pockets. Big pockets, little pockets, pants pockets, shirt pockets, coat pockets---hey, coat pockets! Worth checking! 

As soon as Deacon changed his focus, MacCready plunged a hand into an obscure pocket on the inside lining of his coat and pulled something out, small enough to hide in a clenched fist. “What the hell are you doing?” Deacon said, trying to pry his fingers apart. 

“Uh, my job,” he replied, sounding gratifyingly out of breath, even as infuriated as that response made Deacon. 

“Your job is just to thwart me?” His arms are longer than Mac’s so if he can just grab his arm…. Or an elbow or a shoulder and just work your way up, God, Deacon, are you always this stupid, mental-Dez asked in exasperation. He wasn't used to trying to work with one arm out of commission. 

He managed to trap MacCready’s wrist against the concrete, and pinned him. Mac was warm and sweaty and still straining to keep his outstretched arm away from Deacon. 

“Nah, man, my _job_ is keeping you away from Blue. Thwarting you's a _perk_ ,” MacCready said, his breath raising gooseflesh on Deacon's neck and making him even harder, _damn it,_ which was all too obvious since he was lying on top of the guy. 

Deacon gritted his teeth and tried to insinuate his fingers into Mac's fist and he touched something small and key-like when MacCready jerked his arm away again. Deacon grabbed his wrist and squeezed, in that way that Tinker Tom said was supposed to make the nerves go numb and hey--! For once it worked. The other man's hand opened, small silver handcuff key clearly visible... Then MacCready’s arm spasmed and it started sliding off his palm. Deacon's fingers clipped the edge of it and closed on air, and then the key hit the concrete, bounced twice and tumbled through a small, rebar-lined hole. Down one hundred feet to disappear soundlessly into the undergrowth. 

Deacon stared after it for a long moment and then looked down at MacCready. He was frowning. “Where's the key?” 

Deacon closed his mouth. Looked away. 

MacCready looked madder. “Did you just _force_ that key out of my hand and then _lose_ it?” 

"Okay, look, things moved quickly, mistakes were made--" Deacon began. 

MacCready closed his eyes and overrode him. “The Railroad's _master spy_ and this is what--" 

Ouch. Personal attacks. Totally unfair. “That’s enough, MacCready,” Deacon said. “Whose fault is it we have on handcuffs?” 

MacCready’s eyes popped open. “Your fault--you wouldn’t listen to me about Blue!” 

“No, see, why are we on this overpass? Who brought handcuffs into this situation?” Deacon replied, logically, he thought. Although he almost sounded upset on that last one, which was way out of the norm for him. 

“Because Blue wanted to check you guys out! Because you boneheads with your stupid ‘follow the freedom trail’ like that’s the height of subterfuge kept dropping hints!” 

“I get it, you're unhappy, and I regret that, but at the end of the day, this is really _not_ our fault," Deacon said. “How about you fill out a customer survey. How can the Railroad make _your_ experience better?” 

MacCready's voice got louder. "Your password to unlock your secret hideout is your name! Sheesh, I thought the Gunners were dumb, but you guys make them look brilliant!” 

Deacon opened his mouth to answer calmly, _that's it, I'm out of here,_ when he realized that he wasn't out of here, thanks to the handcuffs, he couldn't be out of here, and so his number one coping mechanism for difficult situations was useless. And he couldn't even think of the next one. What, like drinking maybe? Crossword puzzles? Baiting Carrington? None of which would work because he-was-trapped-on-an-overpass! He could feel his calm disintegrating.

On top of that, he could suddenly see how goddamn MacCready had absolutely played him, from the initial crappy lie, to the handcuffs and the slightly-better lie, to this whole we have to squeeze together or die-- And that, that was a thing Deacon could not forgive, because no one, but no one got the better of him like that. My god, Desdemona would fire him and rightfully so, he'd behaved like a stupid, infatuated kid-- 

"Shut. Up," he said flatly. And yeah, even now, he knew—that MacCready wouldn't do it and because he was an absolutely aggravating-- 

“Yeah? Make me!” 

Schoolyard taunts. Why was he not surprised? And then, then the only thing to do was to dig his fingers into MacCready's stupid fluffy hair and wrench his head back and kiss his damned throat like he wanted to rip it out.


	5. How did it end up like this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DUBIOUS CONSENT**  
> (right here, right now)  
> Be warned.

Mac's body went still under his, and he swallowed hard. Then Deacon rolled his hips forward, slowly, lazily, against the other man's groin and MacCready sucked in his breath. His free hand clenched on the fabric of Deacon's shirt until the collar button popped loose. Deacon released his hair and started to reach down between them but MacCready shoved his shoulder hard, nearly knocking him sideways. "Stop it!" 

Nearly, but Deacon was heavier and leaning all his weight forward. He grabbed Mac's wrist and pinned it to the rough concrete. Then he took his time deliberately biting up the curve of MacCready's neck; felt the reaction every time his teeth dug into Mac's skin. A tremor went through the other man’s frame and his breathing caught. 

"I said, stop it," MacCready said again, lower, and completely _failing_ to disguise the turned-on quality of his voice. 

Deacon didn't bother replying, just shifted so that he could grind down onto him. He could feel how hard he was. MacCready's wrist jerked futilely in Deacon's grip, while tension gathered in his thighs. Deacon was lulled into thrusting against Mac, god, so hot it's indecent. Then MacCready yanked his wrist again, this time using every bit of the muscular biceps that Deacon had spent so much time admiring and he almost lost his grip. Deacon was pushed back onto his knees, staring down at MacCready while the other man twisted his wrist and strained against him, eyes dark-stormy-blue and angry. Mac's fingernails dug into his arm and Deacon grimaced before managing to grip his fingers tightly inside his fist. His arm stung and little half-moons of blood welled up on his skin. 

"Made me bleed, baby," he said. Dragged his forearm over Mac's lips until the blood smeared and MacCready opened his mouth and sucked it off. Deacon dropped his head down onto MacCready's shoulder, savoring the delicious movements of his tongue. Not that he'd forgotten the uncomfortable feeling that MacCready had somehow played him, and-- Well, for _that,_ Deacon was going to absolutely take him apart and he wasn't giving him any fucking choice about it. 

And Deacon had the advantage. Once his arm was clean, he hauled MacCready's hand over his head, slowly, agonizingly, Mac fighting him silently every inch of the way, until he could grab Mac's free wrist in his own handcuffed hand. Yanked all the slack from the chain so his other wrist pulled tight, too. 

Then he leaned back on one elbow and cast a hot glance over the other man. Reached up to the neckline of the stupid four shirts or whatever MacCready was wearing and yanked until the buttons pulled off the outermost and the t-shirt tore straight down the middle. Pushed the remnants off his shoulders and flicked the trailing edges of his duster back. Then stared at MacCready's bared chest and stomach like he'd never seen him before; the bunched muscles of his shoulders and the tapering line of his waist to his hips. Telltale bulge at the groin. MacCready swallowed and turned his head, refusing to meet Deacon's eyes. Deacon flattened one hand on his chest. He could feel how carefully MacCready was breathing; even, slow, measured breaths in, then out. It was a technique that Deacon had used before, either to hide arousal or simulate it. Deacon knew Mac wasn't using it for the latter. 

Dug his fingernails into MacCready's skin and the even rhythm stuttered into a gasp. Rubbed his hand slowly up and down until a shiver ghosted over Mac's skin, and Jesus, Deacon wanted to kill him for being so sexy. 

"Stop _looking_ at me," MacCready muttered. Deacon had to stop a moment and gather his thoughts because his head was pounding, blood rushing heavily in his ears. Mac still wasn't looking at him so Deacon grabbed his chin and forced it around to stare into his eyes. 

"Straight to the fucking, okay, I can do that." MacCready tried to hide his reaction but Deacon could see it in his face, felt it thrum through his body. He thrust forward involuntarily, dry-humping wasn't his fave, but hey, they had all night, and there was an answering motion from Mac's hips, before he froze again. Deacon took the opportunity to trace his tongue around Mac's ear and nibble his earlobes until he breathed out shakily. 

"No--no kissing,"" MacCready hissed. His wrist jerked in Deacon's hand, and Deacon tightened his grip, and sucked another mark at the curve of his jaw. Licked the hollow at the base of his throat, and tasted the tang of his sweat. He didn't want to hurt Mac, except he did, he so did. He wanted him to wince the next time he shaved and to be confronted with irrefutable proof that Deacon had had him, spread and needy and open on this fucking overpass. In every way. That would teach him to argue, and oh god, he's so hard his thoughts are turning hazy and slow. 

Deacon pushed his hand down between their bodies. "Your mouth keeps saying no, but your dick says yes." He kept his tone low, but there was still an undercurrent of anger vibrating through his arousal. 

He pulled the remains of the shirts out of Mac's pants and shoved one knee between Mac’s legs, rougher than he needed to be, just because. Mac's pants were worn soft and smooth and his groin wasn’t covered by ammo or holsters or belts. His cock was right there, ready to play with, hard and smooth and silky through the old material. Deacon wrapped a hand around the base and squeezed gently. 

"No watch, and we're going way over three minutes," Deacon murmured. MacCready bit back a noise as Deacon slowly stroked up. Finished with a little twist and then back down. Felt the pressure against his knee as MacCready tried to clamp his legs closed. So fucking hot. But too late. 

He kept stroking and buried his face in the sweet-smelling curve of MacCready's shoulder, and kissed the other side of his neck. Paused to see if MacCready had any more comments, but the other man was silent. Deacon stopped stroking to rub his thumb over the head, the cloth sliding moistly over the sensitive skin. MacCready caught his breath and his thighs tensed. 

Deacon closed his eyes and thought about tonguing the end of Mac’s cock, tasting him, taking him over the edge until he came apart in his mouth and he thrust forward almost helplessly, pushing against his own hand and MacCready. Fuck. _Fuck._ His hand clamped tighter on Mac's wrist, and the other man made a choked noise in his throat. Deacon felt like his head, his dick, maybe both were about to explode with frustration. 

He leaned over to whisper into MacCready’s ear: “If you’d used a different set of cuffs, then I’d have enough slack to put your cock down my throat, and let you fuck my face.” Mac’s dick jerked in his hand. “You like that, baby?” He kept touching him, pressed, stroked up and then down, then switched to light barely-there caresses. He could feel the other man’s heart racing, and his breathing got faster as the old material got wet and sloppy under his hand. Ah, yes. 

Deacon could feel warmth flushing through the skin under his lips and tiny muscle spasms in his thighs. His own limbs were heavy and warm, and he kept flashing on memories of peeling MacCready slowly out of his clothing and smoothing lube over his fingers and— 

He stopped abruptly. “Wait, don’t want to get too worked up too soon,” he said breathlessly, and gripped Mac’s cock firmly around the base. 

MacCready’s hips jerked. His wrist twisted in Deacon's grasp and moved until he could lace their fingers together. Deacon waited a few seconds until he felt less like coming all over MacCready's pretty stomach. Then he brought their interlaced hands down to Mac's damp cock. "Feel how hard you are, baby," he whispered. Flattened both their hands and pressed downward. "If I make you stroke yourself, will you come for me?" 

MacCready made a little choked noise and his hips hitched. Deacon yanked their hands away. "But not yet." 

MacCready moaned. "Oh, damn it, Deacon, fu—screw you." 

"Your wish is my--" Deacon breathed, but he couldn't finish the thought. He unbuttoned the fly of Mac's pants and tried to tug them down, but got caught on some belt or another. Mac shifted underneath him and pulled him closer, until he could nip at the skin of Deacon's neck. It made Deacon close his eyes and temporarily lose track of what he was doing—thrusting forward, desperately seeking skin. The rough cloth of their trousers chafed, followed by a sharp twinge in his side. No doubt one or another of Mac's many hold out weapons. His hand was tangled up in Mac’s pants and he felt light-headed with desire while MacCready sucked on his jaw. 

Looked like Mac wouldn't be the only one wincing while he shaved and the idea of others seeing what MacCready had done to him, was arousing enough that he had to catch his breath and clear his throat before he could speak. "Can you get rid of the weapons before you accidentally disembowel me?" 

MacCready reached down to the layers of shirts and duster and pulled out the small pistol that Deacon had last seen up and close and personal with his _skull_. 

"Who says it would be an accident?" MacCready said, voice low and husky. The sound of it ignited a simmering pool of lust at the base of Deacon's stomach. MacCready crooked one knee up and scrabbled around until a combat knife followed the gun. 

Another gun and a short spear followed. Sheesh, this guy. Deacon was still lying on top of him, feeling every curve and dip of his body, his dick shoved against his belly, and one arm pinned over his head by the handcuffs. 

He used the leverage of the cuff to thrust harder against Mac's dick and the metal bit into the skin of his wrist. He didn't care. He was maddeningly restrained, barely able to manage thrusts and caresses. He couldn't change positions, couldn't move downwards or up, couldn't take MacCready into his mouth. They're both still mostly dressed. It's probably the most sexually frustrated he's been, like, ever, and as much fun as it was to know that MacCready was right there with him, he was also starting to literally _ache_ for release. 

MacCready shifted restlessly and said. "This isn't a good idea but you're not gonna stop, are you?" 

"Nope." No, no, no. He didn't care what Blue, or HQ or anyone thought right now. 

“So you're still a--a …. Jerk.” MacCready grabbed the combat knife and in one quick motion, flicked it against the rope belt tying Deacon's pants together, also cutting the material slightly and making the pants fall open. He didn't leave so much as a scratch on Deacon's skin, and that thought-- 

"Oh, damn, you're so fucking hot," Deacon said, and shit, there was probably something wrong with him for finding a knife in Mac's hands so sexy. Probably, but he couldn't spare any time on it because those clever fingers yanked until Deacon's pants tore and then roughly felt him up. Deacon had to bury his face in Mac's neck and think of prime numbers to keep from coming. Mac pumped him fast and hard and fastened his lips on Deacon’s throat. 

Deacon groaned. “God, yes, bite me, baby." He angled his body up so Mac could touch him. Deacon didn't normally see the appeal of marking your lover—it made it harder for disguises and MacCready’s neck was a poor substitute for his cock, but-- Baseline competitiveness, anger, and a desire to hear MacCready moan louder, had him sucking on MacCready's collarbones, and all over his throat until Mac's breath was hitching unevenly, and his hips were jerking forward while his hand pumped Deacon's dick, just this side of too rough. But that was good, because the occasional flashes of pain were all that kept him from coming. 

And then, suddenly, it was too much, and he tried to push MacCready's hand away. But MacCready’s shoulders were tight with anger, and he canted one hip so that Deacon couldn't reach him and kept stroking relentlessly. 

"Wait, wait, fuck--" Deacon said, helpless while Mac's hand tightened, squeezed-- 

"What, you don't like that, _baby_?" MacCready said, with a hostile edge to the words. "But I can tell you do, your dick’s not lying. So go on, Deacon--" And if Deacon actually heard the words 'come for me' on his lips, he was ...lost for sure. He wrenched away forcefully and ended up on his hands and knees, looking down at him. 

MacCready's shirts were ruined, and smears of pre-come gleamed in the moonlight on his stomach. His lips were puffy, his hair tousled with a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The red marks on his neck were vivid against his pale skin and he looked so fucked-out and delicious that Deacon almost forgot what he'd just said. Except... he couldn't. 

"Yes or no?" Deacon asked him, his voice raspy with want, with the desire to lick and suck and fuck and _damn him_. "Yes or no, MacCready?" 

Mac stared up at him angrily, clouds and moonlight casting shadows across his face. Deacon could see the movement of his throat as he swallowed, and he wanted to grab him and just. Take. Set his teeth, and took a deep breath. " _Yes. Or. No._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so very nervous about posting this, so I sure hope you enjoyed reading it! *collapses and bathes her forehead like a victorian heroine*


	6. Now they're going to bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I got called in to work all weekend, blah. Rather stay home and write fanfic..

"Now you're asking," MacCready spat. "Now?" 

"Yes, now I'm asking," Deacon said, gritting his teeth so hard it hurt his jaw. The little fucker was going to make him crack a tooth. 

MacCready's eyes narrowed. "What if I say no?" 

"Fine," Deacon snapped. "Then I roll over and seethe for the rest of this damnable night." The muscles of his arms were trembling and he felt like they were about to crumple and dump him atop the other man. He eased over to one side, keeping a clear margin between their bodies. Closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. 

He felt the other man shift and opened his eyes to find MacCready half-turned to face him, moonlight making silvery glints in his hair and eyes. "And then what?" 

Deacon's normal insouciant grin was light on 'carefree' and heavy on 'fuck-you'. "I give persuasion my best--" 

MacCready reached over and gripped Deacon's throat, cutting his words off. Hard enough to make his breath drag thick and slow through his throat. He reached up to MacCready's wrist, and curled his hand loosely around it, but didn't pull or fight. 

"Stop lying to me," MacCready hissed, and if Deacon weren't so turned on, rational-him might have panicked a little at those words. 

Mac released his throat, and Deacon fought the urge to cough or rub. Instead, he licked his lips and didn't say a word. MacCready took his free hand and lifted it up over his head, until he could clasp his own wrist with the hand still in cuffs. Then he shoved Deacon until his back smacked against the barricade. Deacon got the message. No more touching. For _him_. 

MacCready raised one eyebrow; let the silence stretch out between them. A little breeze stirred across their bodies, mottled by moonlight and shadow. A casual observer might have thought them asleep. 

After several minutes, MacCready touched Deacon's shoulder, and deliberately gathered the material of his shirt in his fist. Pulled, gently at first and then harder, the muscles of his arm tensing, which, goddamn it, is _still_ hot, and then Deacon's shirt ripped cleanly across his chest. 

Mac's eyes traveled across Deacon's body and Deacon had to look away, discomfort flushing across his skin. MacCready touched his neck lightly, tracing along each side, almost tickling, before pressing harder. 

"I can feel your pulse," Mac muttered. He angled Deacon's chin slightly, touched one fingertip to the skin of his neck, pressed and then touched again in a different place, at the angle of his jaw. Deacon suddenly realized that he was tracing the marks that his mouth had left. The thought stole his breath. 

Mac's hand went lower, and his fingers brushed lightly over one of Deacon's nipples. "MacCready, make up your mind--" he started. 

Mac's hand went back up to his neck, fingernails digging in, enough to seal the words behind his teeth and make him aware of the blood pounding in his ears. 

He leaned closer and whispered, "Deacon, keep your lying mouth shut." 

Deacon's heart leaped into his throat and he had to clamp his mouth closed on a moan. MacCready went back to tracing his fingers across Deacon's throat and only a tiny twitch of pride kept Deacon from tilting his head back and exposing it completely for the other's touch. And yep, he realized, like, a whole level of metaphor and subtext there. Again, and some more, rational-him thinks that they'll need to have a Serious Discussion About MacCready. Once he gets off, because, Jesus, things were getting to crisis level crotch-ward. 

MacCready turned to face him more fully and stopped petting his neck. Deacon swallowed hard when he saw MacCready lick his fingers and trace them over Deacon's chest and nipples. Whisper of cool night air on his skin, cooler where it was wet from MacCready's spit. Deacon shivered involuntarily. He had to clench his fists tightly around each other to resist grabbing MacCready and dragging him closer. 

MacCready touched his stomach, traced the outline of his hips and Deacon was uncomfortably aware of how bare he felt, more or less naked from shoulders to hips. His own dick was hard against his belly, exposed to sight and the night air. When Mac touched him again, he closed his eyes to fool his hammering heart into believing there was some measure of privacy involved. MacCready's hand dragged lower, and he clenched his fists tighter, until he heard the bones creak, and the cuff bit into the skin of his wrist. Then there was a firm grip wrapping around his cock and stroking up and Deacon couldn't resist thrusting forward into the other man's fist. 

Pause, and MacCready released him abruptly. Deacon's cock was left forlorn, hard, pre-come dripping, while Deacon cursed internally. He opened his eyes and saw MacCready yanking at the ammo belts wrapped around one thigh. He moved with a smooth economy of motion that Deacon simultaneously envied and also thought was indecently hot. 

MacCready opened up his fly and pushed his trousers down and grabbed Deacon's hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. Lined their cocks up, bare skin of their stomachs gleaming. Deacon hitched one hip sideways to meet him, without moving his arms from their position over his head. MacCready pushed forward, skin to skin, or more accurately dick to dick, though without lube, it was a little dry and rough for Deacon's liking. Not that he had any lube in his pockets. He doubted Mac had any either, but when he started to open his mouth to ask "lube?", MacCready slapped a hand over his mouth. 

"I don't want to hear anything but groans from you," he said, and then pulled his hand back, and licked a wide wet stripe up his palm. He looked disgustingly sexy doing it, pupils wide and dark, and a little string of saliva leaking from his lower lip. He met Deacon’s eyes,and Deacon remembered that mouth around his cock, looking down at him on his knees and he groaned. Then MacCready wrapped his slick palm around both of their dicks, and Deacon thrust forward. 

MacCready pushed him until Deacon was pinned between his body and the barricade. “Not so fast, Deacon," he whispered into his neck. His hand stroked them, gathering up the pre-come and rubbing it over them both, until his hand glided over Deacon's cock, exquisitely slippery with sweat and pre-come and spit. The feel of MacCready’s dick against his own was so arousing it drew another low noise from his lips. 

MacCready's hand moved up and down, stroking smooth and slick. Slowly, though, too slowly. Deacon made a noise of frustration and tried to thrust faster, harder, and MacCready dug his knee into his hip and prevented him from moving. Mac's movements weren't as hard or as fast as Deacon would like and he was forced to lie there and take it, what Mac wanted to give him, as little or as much. It was both frustrating and unexpectedly freeing; the other's hand on him, leisurely like he could lie there and mess with Deacon all night, while Deacon's arousal rose and fell with each movement. The muscles of his groin tightened but as hard as he was, it wasn't enough to come and the stimulation made him tremble. 

MacCready paused his hand and Deacon caught his breath. "Who says I'm letting you come?" Mac breathed into Deacon's ear. "Beg me. Or maybe I'll just get myself off, jerk." 

Deacon stubbornly stayed silent while MacCready's hand worked between their bodies, slipping wetly over them both. MacCready tipped back a little and Deacon couldn't resist looking down, to see his hand gliding over him, droplets squeezing out of the tip onto Mac's long, slender fingers, with the intermittent roughness from his callused fingers shooting sparks of heat along his balls and spine. MacCready rubbed his thumb over the top of his dick, pressed down and Deacon gasped and struggled to push forward, to sheathe himself tighter into that slick warmth. 

MacCready's hips jerked and then he let go, breathing hard, his nose next to Deacon's ear. Deacon's climax danced out of reach and he groaned again, this time with equal parts frustration and arousal. Thought about MacCready pulling away from him and taking himself in hand, working his fingers over his own dick, until his breathing rasped in his throat and Deacon saw his face go slack with desire.... He was tempted to release the cuff that he was still hanging onto and take this into his own hands—err, hand, so to speak. 

"I don't have any lube in my pockets, but if I did, I'd do what you wanted me to do last time and fuck you until you couldn't breathe," Maccready said. Deacon couldn't make any words. He managed a garbled sound and then he was flailing, still not letting go of the cuff, because MacCready was thrusting agaisnt him, hard and fast, and angry Mac was perhaps the hottest fucking thing ever. Deacon could feel the damp skin of his belly, coupled with the soft curly hair at the base of his penis and he gasped out, "God, MacCready, all right, you win, let me come, please." 

MacCready curled his hand around them, and the extra friction was nothing short of magical. He was nearly panting in desire and MacCready made a choked noise in the back of his throat, his damned sexy fingers still now, while they both thrust up against his hand and against each other. His muscles are drawn as tight as a drum, and he thinks if Mac stops now..... He'll scream. Or something. Their cocks were sliding wetly together and Deacon desperately wanted to touch Mac, stroke every part of him, but for the _cuffs_ \-- 

MacCready pressed harder, his hand like a vise, and Deacon half-rolled atop him. MacCready's hips moving with his own was amazing, and a low moan torn from Mac's throat vibrated across his skin like a kiss. And it wasn’t going to take long, oh god. 

Deacon could feel it gathering in his balls and in his blood, like a radstorm just before it burst over the horizon and there was nothing but bliss in tipping over that edge. “Oh, fuck you MacCready, you’re so fucking hot,” Deacon groaned. His mouth was on Mac's shoulder and he bit down and came hard, his come spurting messily over Mac's stomach. MacCready’s hips stuttered, and he cried out and came seconds later. 

And then, swear to God, it was like lights and fireworks and butterflies and out of body experiences, because Deacon was truly _embracing_ the _cliché_. They were shaking and breathing hard and Deacon's head was light and floaty and seriously, this was not him. He didn’t think he would find the volition to move a muscle, for maybe a decade or two. Well, except for the fact that both hands were losing all sensation. Whatever, the rest of him felt too, too good. But _ouch_. Once the orgasmic spasms died down, he could also feel how strained and uncomfortable his shoulders were. He shifted enough to relieve the strain on his cuffed hand and let his other arm flop down across MacCready. Mac grunted when he shifted, and tucked his head against his chest. Deacon felt red-hot pins and needles as the circulation began to return, but even that wasn't bringing him down. He tugged Mac closer, and smoothed his hand down his back caressingly. 

“Fuck, MacCready,” Deacon muttered. It sounded way too happy, the rational part of him thought disapprovingly, drugged out and blissful. And seriously, post-coital cuddling? Not his scene. Because MacCready knew who he was, knew his face, even knew he was with the Railroad. He knew too much in every way. Deacon should not be feeling so...peaceful, lying there next to him. 

He needed to pull away and make some cool quip that made it clear that none of this was personal. Pulling away didn't sound very appealing, but he could probably scrounge up a quip. Deacon had to swallow twice before he was sure his voice wouldn't come out sounding...too....uh, affectionate, or something. "Okay, well, that was a fun way to waste some time." 

MacCready was quiet until his breathing slowed down. “Sure, yeah, I guess," he said, a little edge to the words. They lay for another few minutes, at least until Deacon's back started aching. Plus, stroking the soft bare skin of MacCready's back, feeling the thump of his heartbeat against his chest and such, was not being very conducive to a cool, detached state of mind. 

He started to shift away, but his hand said 'no, fuck you' when he tried to brace it and his knee had some serious road-rash. He gritted his teeth, pushed with the knee anyway, which burned like fire, and flopped halfway onto his back. "Ouch." 

Once his hand started behaving more like a hand and not a flesh bag filled with pain and regret, Deacon used the remains of his shirt to wipe the come off their stomachs. Didn't matter, it was ruined anyway. There was a moral there somewhere. Like always carry extra clothing, kiddies, just in case you have angry sex in the middle of nowhere. Pulled his pants up, but couldn't fasten them, thanks to the—his dick twitched at the memory. Man, hot freeway sex really took a toll. 

"Can we sit up? My shoulder's killing me." 

MacCready grimaced but then just curled smoothly into a sitting position. Deacon had to admire the abs that let him do that. "Yeah, as hot as that looked on you, that's not happening here, dude. Can you give me some slack?" 

MacCready fumbled with his pants and then scooted closer, giving Deacon the maximum length of the chain. Deacon was able to roll, brace himself and struggle into a sitting position. He ended up leaning half on the barricade and half on MacCready. He was careful not to pull so he didn't accidentally tear up Mac's skin. He could already see a reddish-purple bracelet of bruised skin on himself; wouldn't want to inflict that on anyone else. Totally his own fault for using the handcuff as leverage to rut against-- 

MacCready took a deep breath and finally spoke. "I don't get you, Deacon," he said. "Sometimes you act like you hate my guts and then sometimes--" 

Deacon didn't like where this was heading. MacCready would have to bring this up right after he had come his brains out, and he was still feeling off-kilter. He felt the loss of his sunglasses keenly. "What, and sometimes I act like I want a quickie? I'm not getting the problem here, I mean, you got off."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading!! (this totally isn't the end of dealing with What Deacon Did by the way, that will have ramifications for a while, still).


	7. I just can't look, it's killing me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a brief discussion of sex at Little Lamplight—they were all absolutely underage, so it's squicky, but I can't imagine an unsupervised colony of kids and teenagers NOT having sex, with no adults/parents around to stop them, and I doubt that 'consent' would mean a lot to them either.

He felt MacCready take a breath. "Believe or not, Deacon, not the most important thing. So that one-night stand and...and everything else, that's just your normal...that's normal for you?" 

Like anything about this situation is _normal_ for _you_ , Sir? Brit-butler chimed in. Which...was right. Not that he should let MacCready know that. Best to throw a few red herrings across the path. Okay, he knew from context that meant something like a false trail, but why red? Wouldn't any old herring do the trick? "It should have been clear I was lying about one night, like, what, two or three times ago? Counting, MacCready, not your thing, am I right?" he said, purposefully misunderstanding. 

Mac, showing that worryingly persistent perceptiveness that he has, doesn't take the argument bait and said, "Stalking me all over the Commonwealth, then, what the hell is that?" 

Deacon didn't even need Brit-butler's 'the game is afoot!' comment to see the danger lurking. Quick think-on-your-feet time. Straight-up lie: cutting, demeaning comment, make it clear that Mac's just a piece of ass— _subpar_ ass at that and derail the conversation into recriminations, anger and hurt. One serious con: Blue and Mac were obviously close and provoking him to that extent had the danger of alienating her as well. 

So: slightly less cutting lie, in which he makes it clear that MacCready's only interest to Deacon is due to his relationship with Blue. No good, since their uh...connection pre-dated Blue by a few months. Okay, in the lie with a grain of truth category: what was worse—letting MacCready know that he was maybe into him—like, a tiny, miniscule amount—or letting him know that he thinks he's...uh...sexy, hot, or whatever? 

The former, obviously. Attraction was –manageable, fleeting, it could turn on or off in an instant, but genuine liking was more dangerous. Deacon tried not to like people, armored himself with their faults and missteps and kept his own lying, hypocritical false son-of-a-bitch face up front and center. He didn't like people and most people didn't like him. See: Carrington...well, Carrington wasn't a good example. See: Drummer Boy, an otherwise decent kid who occasionally threatened to send Deacon after a dead drop. In the _Glowing Sea_. 

"Wow, aren't we full of ourselves? I'm not stalking you," he said, finally. "I'm in charge of intel for the Railroad, and I need to know the players, the loose cannons, anything that might affect our...uh...production schedules." He took a deep breath and went on, "And you actually know me, by name and everything, so you notice me when you're not supposed to." 

How droll of Sir to pretend that he does not have a few—what, three? No, four sources specifically devoted to Maccready, snotty-Brit commented wryly. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Well, more specifically it wouldn't hurt _Deacon_. 

Now to muddy the waters. He shrugged and held one hand out. "And I happen to think you're hot, so kill me." Added calculatingly: "Sheesh, MacCready, you interrogate all your hook-ups like this?" 

MacCready glanced over at him and Deacon looked back, guilelessly. Not that that part was false, and it was all too easy to let carnal appreciation color a quick up-and-down of the other man. 

MacCready flushed and looked down. "Okaaay, that was weird," he said, and Deacon was too familiar with the sound of 'trying too hard' to miss it in the other man's voice. He was immediately captivated with figuring out whatever it was that MacCready was trying to gloss over. 

He nudged Mac's shoulder. "What's weird?" Silence from the other man. "Seriously, what's weird? I mean, we've screwed, we've had each other's dicks in our mouths—okay, though not at the same time, now that might be weird or at least _challenging_ —so what?" 

MacCready finally said, "How much of that was a lie?" 

Which would be the right thing to say to seriously freak Deacon out under normal circumstances. It would be, if Mac's tone didn't make Deacon think that this was still about him, and not Deacon. So, he stayed silent, because it was the easiest way to manipulate people into revealing more than they wanted. Deacon could give a target what he or she needed, paranoia, revenge, fantasy; but most people just wanted validation. Reassurance. Deacon had long since mastered divining what they wanted and parroting it back to them. 

MacCready proved no more immune than the average person. He hesitated, looking down at his knees and then muttered, "Never had anyone call me hot before. I mean, not a—uh, adult." 

It took Deacon a few seconds to deconstruct that sentence into its logical conclusion. "You've had children call you hot?" 

"Yeah?" MacCready sounded puzzled at the question. Oh right. Yeah. Jesus. He'd forgotten. 

"Okay. So you guys were all doing it like greased molerats, huh?" Which, wow. It made sense, he guessed, given the majority of humanity's preoccupation with sex and the lack of supervision.... But now he had an uncomfortable image of younger MacCready... 

MacCready looked wry. And successfully sidetracked, so yay, team? "Well, I was the mayor. And we weren't sure we'd live past sixteen when we had to leave," MacCready replied. "So, uh, once we hit twelve, usually one of the older ones, um, you know..." MacCready's voice trailed off and Deacon felt a flicker of….. Not sympathy, but something. 

A bunch of kids, of course shit like that was going to happen. He wondered if Mac had cared about the person or simply been dragged into it through a combination of braggadocio and bluster. Deacon remembered being that age, and feeling like nothing was more important than doing what everyone else wanted you to do, no matter what your personal feelings. 

Deacon had purposely led the conversation this direction, diverting MacCready from any talk about how and why they had ended up repeatedly running into each other, but even so, he had to push down an unaccustomed feeling of guilt at exploiting the other's insecurities. He shook it off and returned his attention to MacCready, pushing any stray thoughts firmly out of mind. 

The least he could do would be to tell.... Not the _truth_ , mental-Dez said, with an insulting air of amazement. No, not at all. Just...reassurance. Deacon swallowed hard. 

"Damn, MacCready, I guess just add me to your pile of groupies," he said. Light, easy tone. Like it was nothing. _Meant_ nothing. "Yeah, man, you're hot. You're totally fucking hot. Even I don't lie when I'm coming all over myself." 

MacCready digested that in silence for a few minutes, and then said, "And how do you know about Little Lamplight?" _Because Sir boozed up half of Goodneighbor and Diamond City until they spilled it and then confirmed it with the caravans,_ snotty-Brit said brightly. 

"I already knew that—I was in the Capital Wastes gathering intel on the major settlements a few years back." Deacon spoke as if he can't believe that they're wasting time on this subject and saw tension ease out of MacCready's shoulders. 

He looked over at Deacon with a smile, probably the most friendly and genuine that Deacon had seen since that night in Diamond City. "Okay, so you're just a normal di—uh, jerk. I guess I overreacted. Sorry. I'm glad, though." 

Point for Deacon. Too bad success tasted like ashes. _You're in over your head_ , Deacon, mental-Dez said warningly. 

"I'm a charter member of the Fraternity of Dickish Behavior," Deacon said, carefully not letting any emotion color his voice. "But man....I have to know. What's with the not swearing?" 

Something in MacCready's eyes flickered and Deacon was suddenly aware that he'd misstepped: this question was more personal than he had guessed. But Mac didn't push back, just gave Deacon another quick glance and said, "I—I promised someone important to me to do better. Clean up my act. So, that's what I'm trying to do, maybe not great, but I am trying." 

Deacon was floored at MacCready's admission, when _You're trying to do better by killing people for money?_ was the obvious follow-up question, especially if one wanted to hurt. Which Deacon had, last time they'd really talked. MacCready was trusting him, while Deacon was lying to him and manipulating him, and no matter his reasons, it still made Deacon feel pretty goddamn low. 

Deacon tipped his head back and looked up into the sky. Clear, like nothing was down here. The moon was high up, looking pretty and glowy and just like all the descriptions of it in the old books. Humans may have ruined Earth, but they hadn't managed to screw up the moon. Yet. 

He yawned and shifted uncomfortably against the barricade. "Congratulations on finding one way to keep me on this overpass all night." Casual change of subject. 

MacCready gave him another quick look. "By having sex with you?" 

Damn. So much for that. Mac's voice was low and and smug and Deacon had to suppress an interested twitch in his groin. "Well, I mean, that would definitely work too, don't let little old me discourage any plans you might be making," Deacon said. He had to pause and catch his breath. "No, I meant more the fact that handcuffs wouldn't have held for more than an hour." He considered. "Maybe two." 

"If you can get out, why haven't you?" 

"You would have let me out," Deacon raised his eyebrows and grinned. When MacCready looked confused, he went on, "Look, I twist the chain around the left, not my dominant hand, tear the flesh, raise some dramatic bruising and swelling, and then I complain. You would have come over and taken it off, and then I'm gone, less some shredded skin. Simple as that." 

He looked over his shoulder to find MacCready staring at him. "What?" 

"Crap, Deacon, don't you think that's a little –extreme?" He looked almost worried. 

Deacon shrugged. "Sometimes extreme gets the job done." 

He hesitated and looked away. He couldn't look at the other man any longer; it seemed like every thought MacCready had passed through his eyes, where it was all too easy for someone like Deacon to take it and use it against him. He shifted again, careful not to yank on the chain. All his lower extremities were falling asleep. 

MacCready reached out and slung one arm around him. "Just put your head on my shoulder, dummy." 

Um. Well, it was more comfortable, so-- _Spare us your rationalizations,_ mental-Dez commented. Deacon leaned back, and then found himself relaxing against him. "Let's imagine what stories people will come up with when they find our skeletons in a decade or two. I'm guessing Astronomy Deathmatch, what do you think? We can scrawl some star-charts in our own blood and everything." 

"Blue will be here at sunup," MacCready said. Deacon could feel the vibration of his voice through his skin. "We're not gonna die." 

Deacon snorted. "So she's going to kill a shitload of synths, clear the traps _and_ the minefield and come rescue our asses? Sure." He thought about it and shrugged. "You know what? It beats existential despair. Count me on Team Blue." 

He spotted the combat knife still well within reach. Good. Saw the spear-thing near it. "What the hell is that?" he said, pointing. 

He felt MacCready shift and look. "I found that in the Capital Wasteland. Comes in handy against wildlife." 

"You didn't have it in Diamond City. Either time." The leathers had been way too tight to hide it. 

MacCready leaned his head against Deacon's. "Yeah, Deacon. Sitting in a bar in Diamond City lookin' to maybe get laid, I did not have a yaoi guai spear on me." Deacon could hear the smile in his voice. 

Deacon didn't respond, just kept staring up at the stars in the sky. There, that one looked like the Big Dipper, right? Pointed the way north. He could feel every movement, every breath MacCready took. Wondered how long it would take before it got annoying. _If_ it would get annoying. There was panic just under the surface of his skin and listening to Mac's breathing... _helped_. 

"I never got to ask before, but uh—Quincy?" MacCready said, hesitantly. "Did you get your people out?" 

Deacon really didn't like to talk about failure. He preferred to learn what he could from it and use it-- 

_To beat yourself up and confirm your feelings of worthlessness_ , calculating-him suddenly interjected, sounding like Desdemona in one of her 'let's all analyze Deacon' phases. _But it serves our purposes._

"I wanted to, and to warn the Minutemen. But I didn't make it in time." The comment came out emotionless, with no hint of his inner turmoil, like almost everything else Deacon said. Voiceover lines spoken by a corpse, animated by a ghost. 

MacCready shifted again, and Deacon was maddeningly aware of him, the heat of his body, the bones and lean muscles of his shoulders, and the rumble of his voice between them. "After that night--I walked out. I never went back." 

Deacon knew that already. Just like he knew that MacCready had been the target of a steady campaign of low-level harassment since. _Shall we consider why Sir is gathering information on MacCready?_ snooty Brit-butler-voice asked. _Which Sir should perhaps re-organize, because Sir got zero warning that Blue had hired him._

The snotty-Brit had a point about getting no warning. _That_ would have been helpful. Talk about a waste of good caps. At any rate, he wasn't here for _why_. Feelings, complex motivations, etc.--securely locked up. Deacon was not opening that box—not here, not tonight. Abruptly realized that MacCready was still waiting for a response. 

"You did? Awesome. Good timing, man," he said lightly and MacCready took a sharp breath and then he contracted, going smaller, like he could escape. Like he didn't know there was no escape, there never had been. Didn't say anything else for a long while. And Deacon was so fucking messed up, he couldn't actually even tell if that was what he had intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Denial ain't just a river in Egypt...


	8. Open up my eager eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The morning after....**

The first tentative lightening of the sky woke Deacon. For an instant, the hard surface beneath him and the clammy smell of concrete made him think sleepily, _HQ?_ And wonder why he hadn't heard Glory's strident morning call, _Wake up, synths, you wanna live forever_ , and Carrington's bitching and Tinker Tom blinking, and rubbing his eyes. _Dreams_ , he'd say. _Messages from beyond, Deacon, my man, aren't I right?_

But his left arm was underneath him and numb, and his right arm draped over--someone. Bare skin against his, and a warm figure pressed against him, back to his front. Big spoon, little spoon. Definitely not at HQ then. His face was tucked against the other's neck. There was a faint chill in the early pre-dawn air, but warmth everywhere their bodies touched. He nuzzled forward, not fully awake and kissed the soft skin at the back of their—uh, his---oh crap...MacCready's neck. Faint taste of salt and sweat, mixed with the scent of MacCready's skin. His morning erection making itself known. Traitor. 

MacCready twitched and his legs stretched out drowsily, until they tangled with Deacon's. Mac's right arm was crooked over his head to accommodate the handcuffs. Deacon couldn't see him, all he could see was the curve of his arm and the soft skin at the back of his neck and his hair, flattened on one side and sticking up at crazy angles on the other. He could imagine him, though, blue eyes hazy with sleep and fatigue, bare chested, duster crumpled somewhere beneath them, and scuffs of road rash and hickeys decorating his skin. He could imagine him all too easily and the thought brought a pleasant pool of arousal in his groin. 

Which shouldn't happen. Because morning breath, and awkward bathroom breaks, and not to mention, the fact they were still potentially going to die because they were handcuffed to a fucking road. And, no matter how you looked at it, that was definitely MacCready's fault. He shouldn't feel like rolling Mac over as far as the handcuffs would allow, and kissing him breathless, until he woke up proper and stroking him until he came in Deacon's arms, loose-limbed and flushed. Watching him as he got more turned on, every twitch of his lashes and his lips telegraphing what he was thinking. Because at the end of the day, MacCready was honest in a bone-deep way that...fascinated Deacon. 

Kissing him while he groaned Deacon's name, touching his body, kissing the hurts left behind from last night.... 

MacCready's shoulders tensed and flexed, and Deacon knew that he was awake. He hunched his head lower and made a grumbling sound, and Deacon was hard put to it not to laugh. "So where's Blue?" he said instead, murmuring the words into the back of Mac's neck. 

MacCready huffed. "She'll be along." Deacon changed the kiss into a soft nip and felt Mac shiver in response and arch back against him. 

"It's past sunrise," Deacon pointed out. His arm around Mac's stomach tightened, drawing him back and pressing their hips together. 

"She'll be here." MacCready said. "Didn't think you were going to hold me to the exact minute, necessarily--" 

"Lamest set-up in the history of forever, MacCready," Deacon replied. "You blatantly want me to say, 'I'll hold you.' Subtlety, much?" 

MacCready laughed. "Like you would. Anyway, I know she likes _me_ , so she'll be along sooner or later." Deacon wasn't kissing MacCready, not really, just ...tasting him, and it was so much easier when his critical voices were still mostly asleep and no eyes meeting his, _seeing_ him, just the sleepy scent of Mac's skin and the warmth of his voice and the gradual tightening of the muscles of his stomach under Deacon's hand. 

"Oh, well, should I be worried? Or jealous?" he said. He could move his hand down approximately two inches and touch Mac, but he wasn't...not yet. Instead stroking his stomach softly, gently, trying to convey that it was certainly welcome but Mac didn't have to. Not that he had any particular reason for waiting a clear affirmative before proceeding. Also, _no_ particular reason for wanting to know more about his and Blue's relationship. 

Mac pushed back against him, ground against Deacon's dick and Deacon muffled a noise against his neck and caught his breath. "We're just friends, Deacon. Think I'd be doing this if we weren't? Heck, she's scary." And then all Deacon could think about was getting MacCready's pants off him—oops, handcuffs---okay, _down_ and touching him, and-- 

There was a sudden clatter of shifting rubble at the far end of the freeway. They both froze. "Blue?" Deacon breathed. 

MacCready was already groping around for one of his holdout weapons. "She's not that noisy." He tried to pick up his pistol awkwardly with his left hand. Deacon reached up and helped to brace it for him, reasoning that Mac was probably a better shot with his left that Deacon would be with an unfamiliar gun in his right. Spear still reachable. _Good against wildlife_ , he remembered MacCready saying. As if reading his mind, Mac hooked it with his foot and dragged it close enough to reach. 

Another clatter and the sound of glass breaking. Mac tensed and clicked the safety off. Galloping thud of hoofbeats. Radstag. Normally, not a problem but in this situation? Deacon couldn't see anything, since they were on the ground surrounded by barricades and cars and trucks. Maybe _it_ wouldn't see _them_. Shrill cry of rage and then gunshots. MacCready lowered the weapon and tried to prop up on his elbow, looking around. Silence. 

Then Blue climbed lightly over the barricade and landed about 10 feet away. Her hands were bloody, and she was grinning. "Fresh venison." Then she saw them and her eyes widened. "What the hell?" 

MacCready collapsed back onto his side and lowered the gun. "About time." 

Blue yanked a handful of lockpicks out of a pocket and scrambled over to them. "Oh my god, oh my god. Are you okay?" Blue said. She dropped one and stuck another one into the lock. It promptly broke. Grabbed another. 

Deacon let his head fall back against the concrete. Maybe he should start carrying lockpicks in his pockets. Although, it might be inconvenient when he changed disguises... His arm was still draped over MacCready. Definite feeling of....relief, mixed with a little annoyance at the timing. 

The sun was high enough now to shine into his eyes. All the shelter and security of night long gone. Which forced him to confront where he was. What he was doing. And any way you sliced it-- He shouldn't do this. He couldn't form _attachments._ He had no goddamn business feeling things like relief, or comfort or …..anything else. 

A sharp click and the handcuffs finally came apart. Deacon slowly sat up and tried not to gasp at the agony in his muscles. _Bad_ Deacon. Must maintain tough image. He snuck a quick glance at Mac, the morning sunlight harsh on the bare skin of his chest, turning over and rubbing his hand over his eyes. He started to sit up and stiffened, eyes flying open, probably feeling the same scream from his muscles that Deacon had. 

Deacon took his hand and helped him up with a tug and started to ask, _You okay?_ before snapping his mouth shut. Hadn't he just decided he, he couldn't do that? He released MacCready's hand without saying anything and scooted a couple of feet down the overpass—now that he could. It was the farthest away that he'd been from MacCready since the asshole had slapped that handcuff on his wrist. It felt....great. It _did._

Mental-Dez said that he needed to walk away from these merry idiots and not look back. Ah, nice to see that the Greek chorus was back on the case. And on Deacon's ass. 

Blue was fumbling in her pack now and shoved a bottle of water and a stimpak into his hands. He didn't really need the stimpak, though he appreciated the thought, but the damp scent of the water made him aware of thirst and hunger, and all the myriad little physical discomforts; the stinging pain in his wrist and the bone-deep ache in his shoulders. He tipped it up, swallowing fiercely. 

After drinking, and despite himself, he glanced around for MacCready to make sure that he was okay. And he was hunched over where Deacon had left him, water in his hands, and droplets of it on his face, gleaming on the skin of his chest.... 

Deacon stared... and then wrenched his gaze away, to the concrete of the overpass where he'd nearly died. He saluted it, added it to the alleyway, dive bar, hovel, science lab, underground bunker and whorehouse where he'd also nearly died. _Too bad, you bastard._ You tried. Still here. Still kicking. 

Blue sat back and then stared at them, frowning. The sun was at least a fingers-width over the horizon. Minus one for being _late,_ Blue. 

"Robert, what the hell happened?" 

MacCready glanced up and Deacon abruptly saw the scene from her perspective. And— this was awkward. Considering the torn clothing, the _missing_ clothing, the bruises, the uh—bite marks, Deacon could understand the question. It was all too obvious that Mac didn't. 

MacCready glanced over at Deacon and his eyes snagged on his neck. Glanced down, and his ears turned pink. Oh, right, he’d forgotten about his own bites and marks. Slipping, D. You should keep Mac's mouth busier next time. The thought brought a twinge groin-ward. 

Blue was starting to look suspicious and considering their general state... Deacon hesitated and then said, "Totally consensual, just in case you were wondering." 

Her face snapped closed in a heartbeat. Her hand fell to her side....to her gun, Deacon realized. "RJ? Is that true?" She looked at Deacon as if he were...dangerous. He did his best to look harmless. _Innocent_ was way too much of a stretch. 

Deacon realized that MacCready might _not_ agree that it had been totally consensual, considering....well, considering how everything began. _You were pretty terrible_ , mental-Dez agreed. His stomach sank. He should probably apologize. Also, Blue got plus one for loyalty. Wow—eight was a _damn_ decent score! If she didn't end up shooting him, maybe they could work something out. 

"Yeah," MacCready muttered, eyes downcast. "What he said." Sour taste of guilt in Deacon's mouth, again, some more, man, he really needed to get some distance from all of this. Desperately needed some distance. 

Blue regarded them both for a long moment, but neither said anything. Then, face carefully expressionless, she got up and grabbed their packs and dumped them next to them on the concrete. Ah. Classy. Now Deacon wouldn't have to walk back to HQ holding his pants up. He took out a belt and a clean shirt and put them on. 

Blue sat back on her heels and rummaged around in her pack. Then she held something out to Deacon. 

It was the prototype. He took it and cocked an eyebrow at her. "Awesome. So did we pass?" 

She looked away. "Yeah." She sounded hesitant and Deacon raised his eyebrows. She shook her head. "Yeah. The synths are ...slaves." She sounded more upset than he would have given her credit for. 

Well. Interesting choice of words. He shoved his stuff together and stood up. "Then I'll meet you back at HQ." The sooner he got off this damned overpass, the better. He walked off without so much as a backward glance at MacCready, much less speaking to him. Because he didn't care. Rii-iight. 

Part of him is muttering worriedly about how after one night, he was already finding it hard to stay objective. MacCready and Blue were close; how was he, Deacon going to manage after a week in their company? A month? The Railroad was counting on him, and he couldn't let them down. He'd just have to figure it out. 

Mental-Dez was solemn. _You'd better stay away from him, Deacon._

He didn't really want to do that. Not that he had any choice. He belonged to the Railroad. No room in his life for distractions. Some people didn't _get_ happy endings, because some people just didn't _deserve_ them.

\--------------------------------------

Twenty-two minutes later, he was standing in the main room of the Switchboard, staring around at the absolute destruction of everything that he'd hoped and worked for the last few months. It was empty. Resoundingly so. Not a single synth, dead or alive, in sight. He walked up the stairs toward control and R&D to find more emptiness. 

In the safe room, the only thing missing was Carrington's prototype. Tommy lay where he had fallen, untouched. The pile of ash—Safehouse records, names and locations of relocated synths—all the secrets that had cost Tommy his life. The secrets that would eventually cost all their lives. He picked up Deliverer with a lump in his throat and loaded it. 

"Deacon." Blue's soft voice from behind him. 

He spun around and lifted Deliverer, sighted it on her face. Not that it would help, after seeing her shrug off laser fire earlier, but it was slightly better than just begging for the mercy that he wouldn't get. No mouthy sniper standing behind her, either. He told himself that it was a good thing. One less gun shooting at him. 

She followed his eyes and shook her head. "I had to send him away, Deacon. If this didn't go well, I couldn't bear to fight both of you."

What? She was implying that MacCready—and he had to suppress a sudden _feeling-- Don't, Deacon,_ mental-Dez warned. Blue was trying to throw him off-balance. And succeeding, damn her. Deacon took a few steps back, hoping to gain a slight advantage. Not much of one. He'd seen her fight. He'd seen her kill. 

"So have you sold us out to the Brotherhood or to the Institute?" he asked conversationally. "With no synth bodies, I'm guessing Institute. I'm just surprised that they let you masquerade as a good guy this long. Stealth isn't really their thing. They're usually straightforward and murder-y." 

She held out open, empty hands. "I haven't sold the Railroad out to anyone, Deacon." 

He laughed harshly and her eyes flickered. "I'm serious. If you'd gone to HQ—it's safe and sound. Robert told me that you were suspicious. I'm here to talk." 

He ignored the reference to MacCready—Robert—with an effort and lowered the pistol to gesture around. "How did this happen? Your Pre-war tech included a 'persuade non-humans' feature?" 

She sighed and took several steps back. "The Institue and I—it's complicated. I'm what you'd call a double agent." 

He didn't know if he dared to believe her, but it was a plain fact that she could kill him if she wanted. "A double agent? For who?" he asked skeptically. 

She smiled grimly. "I suppose you know they kidnapped my son?" 

He hesitated and then nodded. She frowned. "Fucking intelligence operatives. I never liked them." She folded her arms and said tightly, "Anyway, so yeah. I'm a double agent for me. I have things to find out and until I do, I need to be on their good side. But I was telling the truth earlier. What they do to the synths... It's not right." 

He stared at her for a long moment, assessing probabilities, motivations, likely outcomes.... Then slowly lowered the pistol. Kept his finger on the trigger, though. 

Her eyes flickered down to it. He guessed she was well aware how quickly he could lift it and fire, despite the peace offering. 

She shrugged. "Come out from there, I'm not going to kill you." She moved out into the main room, by the door, giving him all the room that he needed to feel secure. Then she said, with a pointed look that practically shouted, hey, _listen_ to this: "I promised Robert that I wouldn't." 

Interesting. Implying that MacCready had talked to her about him. Most people would immediately be consumed with curiosity as to what they talked about. Not Deacon. Also, nice bait dangle, reminding him that if he was on her bad side, he was on MacCready's as well. 'Course that implied that she thought he would care if he were on MacCready's bad side. She was more skillful than he expected, for a 'simple' soldier. Not that that mattered, because he _didn't_ care. Much. 

He wondered if she was lying to him, even as his brain immediately sorted loopholes. _Hurting_ him was still on the table. And she was, of course, free to defend herself if he attacked her. He didn't know her well enough yet to know if provoking him into attacking was the plan. Side benefit that it would allow her to claim that she'd kept her promise to ...MacCready. Who'd apparently cared enough to extract it from her. At any rate: Deacon, stop obsessing and stall! "So do you keep your promises?" 

She said flatly, "The ones I make to people. Not organizations. Not anymore. I was a soldier for the Pre-war government. You've seen what that was like. Things haven't gotten any better." 

She smiled grimly. "Let's review, shall we?" She tucked her hands into her sleeves and went on: "The Institute is a scientific oligarchy. The Brotherhood are fucking fascists. The Railroad's an elitist semi-religious cult and the Minutemen..." She sighed and looked down. "They were a corrupt democracy and now... Now they're a monarchy." 

Deacon shook his head. "That's...an interesting summation." He agreed with most of it, even the Railroad's less than flattering designation. 

" _Everything_ fails, Deacon. I don't trust you. You don't trust me," she said. He smiled and didn't reply. Looked down at Deliverer and took his finger off the trigger. Sometimes he was sure that the Railroad was doomed. He'd done his part to keep it going as long as possible, but he was pretty sure there was a tragic ending waiting in the last ten pages. Maybe that tragedy was standing in front of him. Maybe not. 

She went on, "But Robert trusts you. So, you can shoot me in the face, or you can show me that the Railroad is different from the others." 

Was it? But it was the North Star that he'd chosen. No going back. Not now. He sighed. "Well, what can I say? Your charm and charisma have convinced me. You'll need a code name. Operational ignorance, remember. You don't have to pick now, but Desdemona will ask." 

She smiled bitterly. "Way ahead of you. I already have one. It's Blue." Then she looked at him musingly. "Do you know what my real name is, Deacon?" 

He wondered if there was another subtle threat there, but he was tired and jumbled and he and mental-Dez and rational-Brit have all already made up their minds. He lied easily, "I have no idea, Blue. And hey, we've already got cutsey and serious codenames, why not add a color to the mix?" Deacon relaxed slowly and straightened up. He holstered Deliverer and smiled. "So, let's head back to HQ. With that prototype, Dez'll have to let you in. Welcome to the Railroad, Blue." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's a wrap. I love all of you. I’m so lucky to have such nice readers. *sniff* Chapter titles from the song Mr. Brightside, which I listened to obsessively as the unreliable narrator seemed to suit Deacon. (I mean the comic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ADHoAxj7Qo)   
>  Additional minor canon divergences from here on out—Blue is a soldier, Deacon keeps Deliverer, and Blue's code name is ...Blue. (I like gender neutral player character names, which is why my New Vegas ones are always named Six or Courier and Three are always Wanderer. Call it a quirk.) 
> 
> As for general thoughts, once my original author's note got over 1500 words, I decided to put it up as an author commentary, once we were past spoilers. (I have lots of thoughts about dub con.) 
> 
> Next up: **Fool Me Twice**. Then: **Shame On Me**. At least one fun little interlude mixed in. 
> 
> Curiosity on my part, if you feel like sharing-- (sorry, but I don't have a beta reader to bounce thoughts off of and squee at): where do you think our heroes are emotionally at the close of this fic? Tell me in the comments. (Did I convey what I meant to convey?)


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